Perfectly Cruel
by Coal15
Summary: Ichabod and Abbie have a huge fight. Ichabod tries to apologize, but before he can . . . (angst and some sexy times)


**IMPORTANT: I rated this "teen" because even though there is sexual content, it's described in _extremely _mild terms in comparison to my other ichabbie fic which was very sexually graphic, so to me this one seems like a teen rating. Please do let me know if my perception is off and it really should be an "M" and if that appears to be the general opinion, I'll change the rating.**

**On with the fic:**

The strange, fate bound duo trudged through the dimly lit tunnels toward the archives room. They were scraped, bruised, covered in dirt, and very annoyed with one another. When they reached their office and/or sanctuary, Abbie stomped to her desk and spun around to face Ichabod, one hand on her hip the other held stiff as a board as though trying not to ball up in a fist.

"What the hell was that, Crane? You were _useless_ out there!"

Ichabod grit his teeth. "The error was mine, and as I said before I apologize. Let's leave it at that and get back to -"

"NO!" Abbie slammed her fist on the table. "Crane, you keep dropping the ball, you keep apologizing, and I keep letting it go! Well sorry, but 'I'm sorry' isn't gonna cut it anymore. Whatever's going on with you could get us both killed so you need to explain it to me. Tell me."

"THERE IS NO EXPLAINING THIS!" Ichabod exploded, holding his fists to his chest. "It is and has always been my nature to take realities in stride no matter how . . ." he swallowed, unable to find any applicable language. "To take it all in stride and handle matters rationally, and I have done so for this last year but it wears on me, Abbie . . . " his posture slumped and his voice dropped. "It wears on me."

"Hey, I'm fighting this fight too, Crane!" Abbie practically shouted, incensed that he had just basically declared himself alone in the world. "It's not like you don't have -"

"IT'S NOT THE BATTLES THAT -" Ichabod took a deep breath, struggling to remain level headed. "I am intimately familiar with war, far moreso than you in point of fact." He tore off his coat and slammed it onto the rack, then began pacing across the room a good distance from her, never breaking their gaze as he went on with his speech. "Yes, we face this war together, and yes we can relate and connect in many respects, but not only do you not know the mind spinning shock of being torn from one's own time, NO ONE DOES!"

Abbie was STUNNED, though she tried not to betray any sign of it, by his outpouring of anger. Deep down she knew he must be venting a whole year's worth of repressed frustration all at once, but Abbie was a passionate person herself, and in their current context her own anger considerably outweighed her sense of empathy.

"Add to that," he continued, still pacing, his gait stilted but quick, "there is also no one I can turn to to commiserate with on the pain of discovering one's own wife engineered their entire romance for the purpose of corrupting my BEST FRIEND and making me an unknowing partner in creating a Horseman of the End of Days! _Then_ she forces me into a time I've no real place in save for fighting! There is nothing but blood and horror for me here!"

That declaration made Abbie's blood heat to the point of incineration, but he did not yield ground when she tried to speak up.

"My friends? Dead. Nearly every square inch of this place? Unrecognizable to me. My father? . . . Abbie, I secretly hoped even before Washington brought me to this battle that after the dust of war settled he and I could find a way to reconcile, but no. I will never have the chance to . . . I can't . . . you can't . . ." again he struggled for the right words. "ABBIE I WOULD GIVE ANYTHING TO UNDO ALL THIS!" As soon as the words were out of his mouth he realized what he'd just said. Essentially that he wished they'd never met, but he was too angry to take it back.

The sting of his inference only showed in her eyes for a split second before she pushed it down as deep as she could, unwilling to give him the satisfaction. "Oh, really? You wanna walk out on a sacred mission over a _bad break up?"_

The argument had officially devolved into pure pettiness. Both needlessly _mean, _and competing to see who could cut the deepest.

She strode toward him, indignation practically seething from her pores. "You think you're the first man who ever found out his marriage is a lie? Seriously?!"

Crane scoffed and likewise moved closer to her as he spoke. "I've no right to mourn the fact, then?"

Abbie shrugged. "Mourn? Sure. But that's not what you said, you said you wanted to undo all of this. Walk out on our _mission_, walk out on protecting the world . . ." _(Don't say it, don't say it, don't say it!)_ "Walk out on us ever even _MEETING?"_

His eyes narrowed as they stepped directly into one another's personal space. "Yes." he hissed through clenched teeth.

Beneath their mutual anger was the small, nagging voice of reason. _This is ridiculous, knock it off . . ._

Nope.

"Screw you." she said with a look of utter contempt. "I'm gonna go back to the Grady place, see if we missed anything." She left the room without a backward glance, brushing dust off her body as she went. _I'll clean off the cuts and stuff in the car._

The Grady scene. Their fifth such case in the last two months. Man or woman basically drops off the map. Calling sick to work every day, no contact with friends or family. And eventually total radio silence. When the concern escalates to the point of involving the police, they discover the person somewhere in their home having died of starvation and dehydration. Yet their bodies showed no sign of distress. Starvation is not a pleasant way to die, and those who suffer the fate are usually found doubled over, or frozen in mid-spasm, agape with pain. But these five bodies were all found with completely relaxed posture. Odder still, they were all _literally_ smiling, their lifeless eyes seeming to gaze at something wondrous and beautiful.

An enchantment? Delusion caused by some supernatural means? Some sort of incredibly obscure but non-supernatural disease?

So many possibilities.

By the time Ichabod went home, stacks of research in hand, he felt awful about his quarrel with Abbie. Anger still clung to the fringes of his mind, but he recognized it for what it was. Every hurtful, hateful thing she'd said to him he'd returned in kind, then she to him, then him to her again . . . a cyclone of untrue (or at least overblown) complaints devolving into personal attacks.

_May we speak in person?_ He texted her. _I'm at the cabin._

He was entirely adjusted to the practice of texting for both important correspondence and silly banter, but he refused to conduct conversations of genuine emotional importance via this method. A real apology, and hopefully reconciliation, merited real contact.

An hour ticked by, and with every minute his gut and heart slowly seeped into his rational mind.

_Had my wife not been evil . . ._

When he first discovered her deceit he saw nothing but pure misery in his future. Never would he love another as he'd loved Katrina.

_The only thing that turned my heart away from Katrina was the revelation of her nature. Had she not been an agent of evil, my body and soul would have remained with her forever!_

_Liar._ His heart whispered.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

No knock at the door. No return text.

_Really image it, Ichabod. His gut encouraged. You save Katrina . . . she truly is the woman you know . . . your dream, once . . ._

"Not 'once'!" He said aloud. "Always!"

_Nooooooo,_ his gut insisted. _You know it. The truth is right HERE!" _The strength of his heart and gut together launched said truth upward with the force of a bullet, finally piercing the stubborn barrier of his mind.

_You would see them both at work . . . fight alongside the both of them . . ._

_KATRINA! _Still his mind fought. _ALWAYS KATRINA!_

_Liar,_

_Liar,_

_Liar . . ._

The chant of his heart was as rhythmic and ceaseless as its beat.

_Liar,_

_Liar,_

_Liar . . ._

_I love you. _He typed the three words and hit send before he could think the better of it. Immediately his eyes widened to cartoonish proportions.

"Oh . . . crap!" (Modern nomenclature still wasn't a part of his usual lexicon, but it wasn't an extreme rarity either.) "Crap, crap, _crap!"_ He fiddled with the phone as if it were a hot potato. "Dammit!" he shouted at the thing. "Why don't you have a recall button?!"

_Honestly! _He thought with enormous indigence. _We've deciphered the science for space travel but the ability to snatch back ill conceived digital communications does not exist? _He scoffed aloud, annoyed by the technological oversight to which he'd just fallen victim (perhaps disastrously). _Does live television and radio not present our kind enough opportunity for spontaneous humiliation? We can't at least strive to hold more chances at bay?_

Still no return text.

His consuming emotion for months had been grief over Katrina, his mind constantly pouring over beautiful memories of their courtship and marriage. Now in the blink of an eye all he could think of was Abbie. The transition jarred him to the point of dizziness.

He sat on the couch and stared into space, his heart, mind, and gut a harmonious triad for the first time in . . . ?

_When did I first feel this?_

He poured over the question. Not at their first meeting, or even their first months together, that much he knew.

_When did she begin to usurp Katrina?_

He understood without doubt that even if his marriage was set upon an honest foundation, Katrina still would not have remained at the center of his soul, but when did the change begin?

A whirlwind of memories spun through his mind.

The day Abbie thrice beat him at thumb war despite her tiny fingers?

The weeks she spent teaching him the ins and out of driving and car engine repair? P

Her daily demonstrations of courage, cleverness, and wit?

The whirlwind slowed as a particular memory spun into view.

They were in the archives room and a thunderstorm had knocked out the power. For the sake of limiting fast food consumption (health) or take out in general (cost), they'd installed a mini fridge, and Abbie had a pint of a Ben & Jerry's ice cream stashed away. A delightful variety featuring coffee, almonds, and bits of hard chocolate. Of course consuming the treat before it melted and went to waste was the only responsible thing to do. The hour was late, so they lit all the candles in the room first, then settled in with the pint and two spoons.

They sat on the floor just for the hell of it. Perhaps because it was easier to pretend all the tables weren't littered with books full of doomsday prophecies and terrifying monsters. On the floor they could create a tiny scrap of normalcy the length and width of the blanket beneath them.

"Did you know Washington spent hundreds of dollars a year on ice cream?" Ichabod informed her as he licked his spoon clean. "Mind you, long before he earned a President's wage and in a time when a few thousand a year could buy a family all the trappings of a comfortable life."

He could still hear Abbie's marvelous laugh. "So our leaders were into wasteful spending before we were even a country? Tell me again why we're bothering to save the world?"

He'd smirked at her and the two spent a moment shoulder bumping one another back and forth, vying for leverage.

A few minutes later the lights flickered on again, and Ichabod had found himself in a sulky mood the rest if the day. At the time the mood had puzzled him. It seemed sourceless. A feeling with no cause.

Now he understood. He was upset because the moment was over, and it was as close a thing they'd ever to a _romantic_ evening. A candlelit picnic of sorts. Throw in a half dozen roses and you'd have it. What contemporary society would term a 'date.'

_I've found it,_ he thought. _The moment it all began._

He went to bed each nigh, looked the vacant pillow next to him, and imagined _Katrina_ there in the ardent hope that she one day would be . . . but now as he sat on his couch boiling with anxiety, he realized it was only because he considered her the only rightful occupant of that pillow. A default.

But all the while in his times of boredom he thought first of _Abbie, _and how she could entertain him. When he prepared and ate his dinner he imagined discussing his day with _Abbie_. More and more, though he clung to the visage of Katrina, in his moments of great triumph, frustration, or amusement; Abbie was the one he was most eager share it with. She'd gradually taken over more and more of his heart while his mind's eye stayed fixed on Katrina.

With the illusion shattered, he could knew exactly how the alternate future would have unfolded.

_Katrina returns._

_I am faithful and miserable._

_I push Abbie away._

Or the other alternate ending:

_I push Abbie away until I can stand it no longer._

_I bare my heart._

_Either way all roads lead to Abbie._

Still no return text.

He closed his eyes and tried to ignore the mounting fear. Rejection. Awkwardness. Perhaps even hostility.

He wasn't sure how much time had passed when he heard it. A car pulling into the driveway. Car door slamming shut. He sat bolt upright, afraid he was imagining things.

"Crane!" Abbie's voice called out, followed shortly by violent pounding at the door. _"CRANE!"_

He didn't even register crossing the room or flinging the door open, as if reality evaporated until the moment his mouth crushed against hers, almost painfully desperate for acceptance.

To call her response enthusiastic would be like calling the Grand Canyon a crack in the earth. Within seconds she had his shirt untucked at the front, her hands wandering over the flesh of his back and torso.

His upbringing dictated for the sake of propriety that a strict code of conduct be observed with regard to courtship.

_Sod propriety, _he thought as they stumbled across the room, _I need her._

"Come to my bed," he whispered every time a sliver of space appeared between them. "This instant. . . _now . . ."_

Her nimble fingers at work on the drawstrings of his pants was answer enough.

The night was stunning. Every square inch of her touched and tasted. The sound of her pleasured voice calling his name. The perfect heat when she took completely.

He was the first to wake the next morning, and spent a long time basking in pure delirious happiness. The feeling was so intense, it made him feel _physically_ weakened. Not that he cared.

A few hours later they were back to work in the archives room. At least in theory. It took all this discipline to focus on . . . uh . . . whatever practicality or mystery demanded his attention.

All he wanted was to touch her, and whenever their bodies did make fleeting contact he felt a welcome surge of energy.

"Okay." Abbie snapped her book shut, self deprecating honesty written all over her grinning face. "We're obviously not gonna get anything done working in the same room."

Ichabod sighed. He wanted to argue against them separating, but he knew she was right.

_So practical._

He walked her to the exit and cradled her face in his hands.

"I love you." she said with a soft smile.

He pressed a long kiss to her forehead. Then lips. "You are my greatest treasure, Abbie Mills."

She snuggled into his chest for a moment before standing on tip toe to give him a little peck on the mouth. "I'll be at the cabin."

A huge yawn escaped him as he returned to his chair and sat down.

_God, I'm exhausted._ "A short nap." he muttered aloud, wandering to the couch on the other side of the room. "Work to be done. Just a short nap and . . . "

Before he knew it, he was standing in a dreamscape. The cabin, but not as he currently had it arranged. The table clear of clutter, and several unfamiliar adornments hung on the walls. A man he recognized from photographs and a few videos stood in the middle of the room

"Corbin I presume?" Ichabod said with a small, polite bow.

"Yup." The man nodded. "And I'm not sure how long I can keep this dream going, so sorry about the bluntness, but it ain't her."

"Pardon?"

Corbin sighed. "What came to your cabin the other night? That wasn't Abbie."

Ichabod folded his hands behind his back and held himself in a posture of knowing confidence. "You sir, are a manifestation of my . . . uncertainty. The worry that I may lose her."

"Your brain didn't conjure me Crane, I had to bust in here and believe me it wasn't easy."

"Then you're a trickster, or . . . or some dark, magic creation of Katrina's meant to derail me!" Ichabod declared. "Well it won't work! _DO YOU HEAR ME, KATRINA?"_ He bellowed, his gaze flying around the room as if she might be hiding behind the furniture. "I WILL NOT -"

"Look!" Corbin shouted. "If you won't listen to me then at least watch. When you wake up, the next time you see 'Abbie,' pay close attention. The way she moves, acts, talks. You'll see it isn't her. The real Abbie needs you, she's -"

Ichabod woke up with a start.

He meant to discard the dream like any other nighttime imagining, but when he went home he found himself following the old man's advice. He couldn't bring himself to stay _physically_ separate from Abbie, the need to touch her was too great, but he did watch and listen . . .

_See? _He told himself as minutes turned into hours and he neither saw nor heard any indication that she was anyone but Abbie. _A clever attempt, Katrina, peddling your lie in the form of so well trusted a source, but we are stronger than -_

And then it happened.

Abbie began to softly whistle a tune, and his blood turned to glacial ice.

_Abbie doesn't whistle, she hums. And never a 'tune.' Always meandering notes._

He even recognized the tune. Something catchy currently far too popular on the radio.

_Stop it! _He demanded of himself. _You've known her hardly more than a year, perhaps she doesn't sometimes whistle when her mind drifts . . . _He'd never been more desperate to believe anything in his life, but he was too practical to let himself hide beneath total denial. A further test was needed, and it had to be subtle.

"You know, I don't wish to leave the house, but I think we deserve something special for dinner. Chinese take out from Dynasty?" He knew she preferred Fortune Palace. Particularly their cashew chicken.

"Sounds great."

_Not proof enough, she has favorites but she's not picky._ Still, the fact that she hadn't even suggested Fortune Palace made him nervous. He forced a smile and placed a lingering kiss to her forehead. Which turned into a much longer kiss on her mouth that deepened to the point of him leaning into her, half reclined on the couch and painfully tempted to scrap further inquiry.

_YOU HAVE TO KNOW! _"I'll order." He said as he detangled himself from her limbs as fast as possible for fear delay could make him change his mind. "I know what you like."

She smiled and went back to perusing a pile of old documents.

He stepped out of the room to make the call. ("So as not to disrupt your focus.")

Mongolian beef for himself, and for Abbie, sweet and spicy chicken. Easy on the spice. The dish included generous amounts of onion and mushroom. His Abbie didn't care for onion, outright hated mushroom, and never ate Chinese without piling on the spice so thick it practically gave Ichabod an ulcer just watching her eat it.

_Please dear God let her object! _He prayed with the ferocious passion of a Tent Revival Preacher. _Accuse me of playing a prank and asking what I ACTUALLY ordered for her. At least pick out the mushrooms and comment on the lack of spice!" _He imagined the scenario going according to his wish. "_You can tell her of your dream, the two of you will laugh and spend another wonderful night in bed . . ._

"Mmmmmm," Abbie mused approvingly around her mouthful of sweet and spicy. "That's perfect." She gave him a thumbs up. "Good idea."

Before she could take a second bite Ichabod knocked the container out of her hands, yanked her from the couch, and hurled her across the room.

"WHERE IS ABBIE!?" He bellowed.

"Wh . . . what?" She sputtered, her voice tinged with a confusion and pain Ichabod struggled to ignore. No way in hell would the real Abbie chew and swallow a mushroom then call the morsel 'perfect.'

"You can cease the deception, whatever you are. I know you are not her - and never mind how," he cut her off before she could ask the obvious question. "But I know!"

"Ichabod!" She whimpered, tears welling in her eyes. "What's gotten -"

Again he cut her off. "Tell me where she is!" He gripped her arms and shook. "Now!"

The moment his hands touched her a deep happiness surged through his body, and he longed to unknow what he knew. He ordered himself to let go of her. _Run away, or toss her out the door! _But he felt like even metal shackles would be easier to break.

Suddenly the last month's mystery made sense. People who stopped doing anything, even feeding themselves, and still died in a state of obvious bliss?

_"Siren." _He growled.

"Damn." The falsehood smirked. "You are clever." She shook free of his grip, but didn't step back, instead running her hands down is chest. Her touch made his flesh shiver with longing. "Too late though. Like it or not Crane, you're already _mine."_

"Perhaps nearly," he whispered, his voice shallow and quaking. "But I shall fight this to my last breath. And," he added vehemently, balling his fists at his sides. "I will scour every source at my disposal to find Abbie, even if it's only to bury her remains." The thought choked him. Not only the notion of a life without her, or even that he could die at the hands of her evil replica. The ugliest truth before him was that their last moments together were spent exchanging insults, and he may never have the chance to make things right between them.

He grabbed ahold of the Siren's wrists intending to tear her hands off his body, but in spite of his rage the touch turned gentle.

She grinned and nuzzled her face into the crook of his neck. "I normally like oblivious prey." She purred. "But this could be fun, too." She drew her tongue up the line of his rigid neck. "Pretty tasty."

It all proved too much. He went slack in her arms and let himself be guided to the couch.

_How do I survive this? _He wondered as the smell and sound of False Abbie overtook all but a small sliver of his willpower. _How do I keep from being devoured? Find Abbie? . . ._

He wrapped his arms around the Siren and quietly begged her to leave even as he struggled not to love the illusion. Love her as much as he did the real woman.

Day after day she came and went as she pleased. He grew more weary every time she left, and knew she was _literally_ feeding on his strength. His will. His soul. But he never failed to stay true to his oath and spend every minute he could muster pouring through documents, scrolls, and old books. Calling on any person he discovered with an iota of knowledge on the subject of defeating a Siren.

In the meantime, he pushed his self restraint and determination to the absolute limit to resist the monster's thrall. And the ever present urge to surrender.

_As little eye contact as possible._

_No removal of clothing._

_No kissing on the mouth._

_No actual sex of any kind._

In other words, pure hell.

"Why don't you leave me alone?" He asked for the thousand time, too broken to care about the idiocy of the question.

Her cruel yet playful laugh rumbled in his ear, and deceptively gentle fingers trailed in lazy circles over his shoulders and back . "You could always kick me out." She said with a perfect Abbie - like giggle. Pieces of him tore away every time The Siren did or said something so _vividly Abbie._

In spite of his exhaustion and the Siren's confidence in her impending victory, he still had faith he would find her. There were promising leads. When he did find her, he fully intended to declare himself in no uncertain terms, and was confident she would reciprocate his feelings. Regardless, it would forever break his heart that the first time he felt the warmth of Abbie Mills in his bed, it hadn't really been her. He just hoped went he sent the text, _I love you,_ that it reached True Abbie before the Siren attacked.

He reached for that hope in the darker moments. When she came to him and he crumbled beneath the weight of his own need_. 'Need' _here being a wholly inadequate term. Touching her was the only thing that kept him from losing his mind, and much as he hated himself for the fact he knew he'd be of no use to Real Abbie if he fell to madness.

No.

Unacceptable.

"I'm gonna win this thing eventually, silly man." The Siren murmured. "You're only torturing yourself dragging it out."

"No," he answered quietly, his voice somehow spiteful and fond in the same breath. "You won't." He sighed against her flesh cursing himself for the comfort, and almost joy, he derived from the contact. "I will find her." He ran the back of his hand over the hint of exposed skin between her simple gray t shirt and dark blue jeans. "I search daily, and I will find her." He hitched the shirt up a tad further and nuzzled the illusion of her warmth. His traitorous mouth rained small kisses over her belly, both bare and covered. "But I am a clever, determined man."

"But you're still just a man." She raked her fingers through his hair in a way that made his whole body shudder and his heart burn with shame and lust. "Just a _man, _Crane. I'm a Siren. This is what I do."

As always he spent most of the night in her intoxicating embrace, their limbs twined together and moving in a subtle dance, as if both trying to sneak across an invisible border and drag the other along with them.

A few days later he was sitting at the table forcing himself to eat a sandwich that tasted like cardboard as he tried to decipher a stone tablet carved with an ancient pre English dialect. He'd gotten wind of the thing via thin, dubious rumors, but managed to confirm its existence and pay off some people to steal from Oxford University's archives. All on the chance it offered what the rumors claimed.

A way to break a Siren's thrall.

He figured most of the words based on what he knew of lingual commonalities between ancient Scandinavian and Welsh dialects. Then the syntax. And finally what the more _image based _language was describing. From there the thing unraveled like a neat spool of thread.

_Collect the proper herbs. Surround oneself in a circle of salt and three symbols likewise made of salt. Chant phrase until a dreamstate is achieved, and within this dreamstate one will stand with ribs brittle enough to break with a half descent punch. One must then rip out their own heart and command the Siren to appear. They will, and likewise rip out their own heart, revealing the monster beneath the enchantment as they die._

And his favorite detail:

_Upon waking, one will find at their side the True Person._

It took him two days to track down a source for the obscure herbs.

In the meantime he endured two more of the Siren's visits, but immediately after she left the second time he went about setting up the ritual. Once everything was ready he began to chant without hesitation, giddy with thoughts of freedom.

Before the Siren's torture, tearing his own heart out (even in a dream) would have taken him a minute or two to prepare for, but now he drove his fist through his chest with the force of a wrecking ball without hesitation. It was a bizarre euphoric agony. The vital organ convulsed frantically in his hand as if trying to fight him off. He felt every tear of muscle, and rush of blood pouring into the unnatural vacancy left behind when he pulled the heart from his chest and bellowed:

"Impostor of Abbie Mills, your hold is broken! I command you to show yourself!"

And there she was. Eyes blown wide with horror and disbelief. Though he wasn't trapped in the same irresistible spell as before, he knew that watching Abbie's perfect replica die as brutally as she was about to would challenge his emotions. Unlike tearing out his own heart, he braced himself, squaring his shoulders and gulping down deep breaths. "Do it." He rasped, voice gurgling through the blood in his chest.

"Ichabod." She warbled as her hand broke through her ribs. Slowly. She was fighting the ritual as hard as she could. "Ichabod, please . . . "

His eyes welled up but he refused to close them, waiting for the monster to emerge so he could prove to himself beyond any slight, irrational sliver of doubt that he was indeed killing a _monster._

_"Ichabod . . . "_

Her beautiful dark flesh turned a patchy mix of mold like green and blue. The heart in her hand turned to maggots. Her eyes sunk back in her head and vanished until nothing remained but two dark caverns. When the transformation was complete, the squirming white larvae in her hand suddenly multiplied to a volume that engulfed her whole body. They vanished as suddenly as they'd multiplied, and took the appalling creature with them.

"Ooooooooh thank you," he sighed as he collapsed to the ground. "Thank you."

He emerged from the dream still standing, and just as the spell promised there stood Abbie.

"I got your text." She said before hurling her arms around him hard enough to send them both staggering backwards, obliterating the circle of salt.

Without even considering his actions he lifted her up and held tight to her body as her legs wrapped around his waist. They spun and fell against the wall locked in an eager, long overdue kiss.

"I love you so much," she sighed, her hands threaded in his fine hair.

"Mm - hm." He rumbled the wordless syllables into her lively mouth as he hiked her body up the wall, the easier to kiss and nuzzle her throat, underside of her jaw, and over the strong, elegant line of her clavicle. Every place he could reach.

_Nothing must be neglected! _

Abbie stopped him suddenly and cradled his face, her expression radiating soft affection. "I'm so sorry about that fight. It was stupid."

"I slept with her." He hadn't planned to say it. Couldn't believe he _had_ said it. He away down and waited to hear the sound of her crying, or feel her body tense.

Instead she ducked down to catch his gaze. "You seriously thought I couldn't figure that out? Bitch was a Siren." She chuckled, the wonderful wit of Real Abbie - chiming in her voice. "It _had to _take you a few days to figure it out!"

Ichabod was dumbfounded. "And it . . . you're not upset?"

Abbie shrugged and shifted against him as if searching for a comfortable position in an oddly shaped chair. "Upset in general? Sure. Not at you."

"How is that possible?" He asked, relieved but confused.

"Because if a You - Shaped Siren had showed up at my doorstep, we would've been naked for . . . like the next three days."

Ichabod's heart soared (for a number of reasons, some less gentlemanly than others). He set her down and pushed the hair away from her face. "You're not just saying that so I won't feel so bad?"

Abbie raised an eyebrow. "Name one time you've seen me go easy on anyone." The other eyebrow joined the first._ "Ever."_

"You are a living marvel, Abbie Mills." Ichabod mused as he once again pulled her close.

She rested her head against him and the two swayed together for a long moment before Abbie broke the silence.

"On a semi - related note, I notice I'm still wearing clothes. That's kind of annoying."

"Right . . . um . . . " Ichabod stepped back and cleared his throat. He'd been far from puritanical in his day, downright impure by the rigid standards of the time (though subtly enough to keep his pre Katrina indulgences a private matter). But there was something about the unmasked brashness of modern sexuality that still threw him. Falling into bed without even the pretense of . . . well, it wouldn't have been called a 'dating,' but something of an equivalent manner . . . still struck him as the kind of thing one only did in the spirit of carefree fun with a woman who did not expect nor want to be courted after the fact. The idea that sex be included in the early days of a genuinely meaningful relationship did strike him odd.

Not necessarily wrong.

Just odd.

"Should we not . . . " he fumbled around for the right words while Abbie's eyebrows settled back into place. "I feel you deserve a proper 'date' or two first, don't you? Fancy romantic restaurant, or dancing someplace -" he realized his error and shook his head with a frown. "Or something you actually _like,_ like a baseball game or an evening curled up with Netflix."

Abbie giggled. "You wanna . . . date?"

Ichabod shrugged. "Seems appropriate."

"You're probably right." She threaded her fingers with his and sighed mournfully. "Bummer."

"Bummer indeed." He squeezed her hands and wondered at his spectacular luck to have such a woman at his side. "Shall I drive you home?"

"No Netflix?" She whined.

Ichabod grinned, gratified and flattered to know she was eager to take things forward. "I fear we may be a bit too worked up to behave ourselves."

"Yeeeeeeaaaaaaaah." Abbie admitted, a sour expression on her face. "Take me hoooooooome."

Ichabod's front yard was expansive and for some reason his driveway ended right along its border, so the two strolled slowly across the lawn to maximize their time together.

"Maybe not a _fancy_ restaurant, but we've dined at many casual places I know you like." Said Ichabod as they sauntered along. "I shall pick a handful." He had his arm around her shoulders, and his fingers wandered absentmindedly up and down the her arm as he pondered options. "The batting cages of course, you always have great fun when we go there . . . "

Abbie smirked, leaning into his body. "Or we could do something you don't suck at like paintball."

He shot her a _look_ and went on listing ideas. "Hike the river trails, go fishing . . . "

A person can only walk so slow, so eventually they reached the car. Ichabod went to unlock the passenger side door.

"Hey, can I point something out?" Abbie asked, her tone bright and perky.

Ichabod paused, keys in hand. "Of course."

"All those date ideas you listed? We've done them already. Like, all of them. _A lot._ Hell," she shrugged. "We've even done the Netflix thing."

"And you're inferring . . .?" Ichabod let the question hang in the air, though he was fairly sure he knew the answer.

"We've been doing date type stuff for what, a year? I say it's totally fair if we call 'em dates."

Ichabod spent all of half a breath mulling it over. "Your logic unassailable." He declared. "Right then, back to the cabin."

Abbie shrieked when he picked her up and slung her over his shoulder.

"Never figured you for a caveman type, Crane." She laughed as he strode across the yard.

"Your legs are too short." He replied in businesslike fashion. "That wretched _thing_ cost us nearly month together, we must get caught up!"

"Your logic is unassailable." Said Abbie, her voice hitching as Ichabod leapt up the porch steps.

He was relieved to learn that Abbie behaved differently in bed than the Siren. At least, different enough that it didn't feel like they'd had the experience before. His greatest sadness (aside from the emotional betrayal of his devotion) was that after having been intimate with the impostor, being with Real Abbie for the first time wouldn't feel _new. _But even though her flesh and contours _felt_ the same as the impostor's. Real Abbie _behaved_ differently. When he closed his eyes the hands touching him - gripping or caressing as they moved - were noticeably, indescribably different.

The sound of her differed from the monster as well. Her moan oscillated in a way the Siren's hadn't. His name on her lips usually called out in quick, happy cries as opposed to the Siren's dark purr. The softer tone she reserved for sweet sentiments or notes of approval and encouragement.

Everything about taking this woman to bed felt like a _first._

The next morning they sat on the front porch drinking their coffee, and enjoyed the breezy warmth of spring as though the Siren had never existed.


End file.
